Speak No Evil
by sweetmissbean
Summary: Good Samaritans are not always rewarded for their deeds. How Cotton lost his tongue one Tortuga night. AU. One-shot.


**Speak No Evil**

A cool wind blew over the balmy Caribbean Sea casting a layer of fine mist through Tortuga as if attempting to cap the debauchery that propagated there. Just like Sodom and Gomorrah from long ago, the town was beautiful on the surface, but Tortuga's heart had become adulterated by hidden evils that waited in its dark corners.

A diminutive resident of the town had the task of lighting the lanterns that ran along the intertwining streets, their glow lending a false sense of security to those who'd dare walk beneath them at night. The town folk did their best to exorcise the town of its demons, hoping to one day have a prosperous community full of hope and promise, but the evil kept coming, drawn to the town, as if regenerated by the night itself.

It had been months since Bailie last visited Tortuga. He was not oblivious to what lurked within the town limits. Like most sailors that entered the port, Bailie was here to satisfy lust and the need proved strong enough to pale all warnings against traveling the town alone and caused him to be ignorant to the town folk's efforts to keep him safe.

He moved away from the brightly lit town center leaving the mass of brothels to his heels. He had one particular woman on his mind and she was Lucy, a sassy little thing with freckles on her nose. Anxious, he hurried in the direction her house lost in the memories of past visits to her door.

Getting intimate with Lucy was indeed foremost in his mind, he was eager to taste the sweetness of her lips and feel the warmth of her skin again, but what he truly yearned for was to hold her close and simply talk to her. She would hang on his every word and listen with genuine interest to his stories of far off people and places. Even though he had to pay for her company, he did so without hesitation because he knew her affection for him was real and he hoped to one day take her away and give her his name.

Less then a block from Lucy's threshold, Bailie heard a scuffle and an odd cackling sound from within a narrow alleyway that ran between two dilapidated buildings. He almost completely ignored what he had heard, figuring that it was only a squabble between some of Tortuga's feral chickens, who were just as feisty as the women who trolled these streets, if it hadn't been for the sickening gurgle that preceded a deathly silence.

All his instincts said something was wrong and a rising dread soured his stomach. For a long moment, he debated whether or not to investigate the disturbance and just continue to his dear Lucy, but his conscience stepped in and insisted his lover could wait.

Bailie crept down the alleyway, keeping his back near the wall and the street in his peripheral vision. The hair on his arms stood stiff as the light from the street faded more with each nervous step he took. Near the end of the alley he found the source and was terrified by what he saw. At the very edge of the lantern's reach, two shadowed figures hovered over a motionless feminine form like wolves around a kill, their feet wading in a growing pool of red that glistened on the street.

Judging by the amount of blood the woman had lost, Bailie doubted there was anything he could do to save her life, but if he could frighten the wolves away, he could at least save her body from further depravity.

"S-step away!" He shouted, failing to keep the fear out of his voice.

The two figures whirled around, their eyes glowing with murderous passion.

What amount of courage Bailie possessed betrayed him at that moment. The two men could sense his panic and lunged. He turned to run but got no further than a few steps before a rough hand gripped his neck from behind and slammed his face into the wall, shattering his nose. He went to shout out, in pain and alarm, but was silenced by the distinct feeling of a round barrel being pressed between his shoulder blades.

The hand on his neck continued to press him against the wall as another set of hands frisked him of his purse and of the flintlock at his hip, claiming them as their own. Their breath was foul with rum, but it wasn't the presence of the alcohol that made him frightened of these men. Sin radiated from them like heat off a fire and Bailie could feel his skin burn under their touch.

"Wot we got 'ere," came dangerous words hissed into his ear.

"Someone who don't know 'nough to mind his own business," said a second man with a heavy Jamaican accent.

"S-sorry," he said, only to collide with the wall again.

"S-S-Sorry?" the first voice mocked before dropping lower and more deadly. "Yer right. Ye will be sorry."

"I didn't s-see nothin', I s-s-swear!" Bailie pled, even though something inside him knew that any attempt at bargaining with these men would be in vain.

His attackers spun him about and pinned his back against the wall, greeting him with a pair of wicked smiles.

"If ye saw nothin'... " said the first, a bearded man wearing a wool cap, as he rammed his pistol up under Bailie's chin, "then why ye scared?"

His hand smelled of perfume and blood. In the dim light, Bailie could see four fresh scratches running down the length of his left cheek. The second, a lanky dark man with a tangled mop of hair, was emptying the contents of his purse into his pocket.

"Wot's yer name?" The capped man demanded with a sneer.

"Bailie C-c-cotton."

"Wot brought ye down our way, Bailie Cotton?"

"I heard-"

"Heard wot?" The capped man dug him harder with his pistol, cutting the skin of his throat.

Bailie begged his mind to come up with a better reason than meddlesomeness for his descent into the alley. "Uh... c-chickens. I heard chickens," he croaked as a stream of warmth ran down his neck.

"Chickens?" the Jamaican laughed with feigned amusement and spat on the ground. "Ye think we be chickens?"

"No!" Bailie cried, now realizing what meaning of his words fell on the men.

The capped man was enraged by the unintended insult and roughly clasped his free hand around Bailie's neck.

"You just went from bad to worse," the Jamaican said with a menacing chuckle. He elbowed his companion. "C'mon, Twigg. Kill'im and get it o'er wit. Captain be waitin'."

The dark man shot Bailie an unfriendly wink and left, followed by a trail of bloody boot prints.

Bailie was alone with the man called Twigg and the body of a woman growing cold in the alley. The gleam of excitement in Twigg's eyes was so intense, Bailie thought he might salivate with the thrill of committing another brutality.

"Killin' ye would be a waste of powder," he hissed and retracted his pistol, but it only caused Bailie's fear to escalate to where he thought his heart would erupt from his chest. Twigg drew his dagger intentionally slow and swept it in an arch before Bailie's trembling eyes, the fresh blood on its blade catching the lantern light.

Twigg leaned in close and said with a sadistic growl, "Ye only need not talk."

Under the mists, the evils of the Tortugan night were made clear to Bailie Cotton. He did not tell Lucy another story. He did not press his lips to hers and savor their sweetness. On this night, all he could taste was pain.

-//-

"You, sailor."

"Cotton, sir."

"Mr. Cotton. Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death?"

He wanted to answer with a roar worthy of a Roman Gladiator. He had faced danger and by tasting the bitterness of its fingers as it raped him of his voice, he learned the true meanings of courage and fortitude.

"Mr. Cotton. Answer, man." The captain asked again, growing visibly impatient at his apparent insubordination.

The grizzled man who had approached him the night before came to his aid and explained his inability to comply with the order. "He's a mute, sir. Poor devil had his tongue cut out, so he trained the parrot to talk for him. No one's yet figured how."

Bailie opened his mouth revealing the stump and like everyone else, including his Lucy, its site repulsed the captain. He knew the reaction well. For nearly ten years he had been the source of such disgust.

The captain took a step, but then turned back to him and with curiosity addressed his ventriloquized friend. "Mr. Cotton's... parrot. Same question."

"Wind in the sails. Wind in the sails," the bird squawked.

"Mostly, we figure, that means 'yes,'" the grizzled man translated again.

With a flap of the bird's wings, Bailie turned pirate.

Bailie Cotton knew of Jack Sparrow's quarry and of the man he sought. The ill blood between the two captains meant nothing to him. He had only one reason for joining Sparrow's unlikely crew. If by some miracle he were to ever hold his dear Lucy close again and tell her another story, it would be of how the men who mutilated him met their fates. He'd see to it they'd experience the same Hell that they had forced onto him. Nothing else could ever taste as sweet.


End file.
